A tentative ticking clock struck the hand of time
Quarter till ten, when Mrs. Fairchild, slid soft and silent
Into the nursery. Her child, lost in livid dreams, she reached,
Plucking the last traces of frightening fear.
But that night she snuck side glances
At a child’s baleful Neverland,
Privy to pirates and mermaids.
Such color,
Such fun.
Intoxicated,
Intrigued,
Fairchild trudged through the forests of fayes,
Frolicked amongst flowers of fantastic origin.
Only so long would her trip last,
Before she found herself once again
Trapped in the nursery alone. She longed for the same
Foul fantastic fairy dust that played upon her child’s slumber.
She searched for the North Star,
A twinkle in the dark, “on till dawn,” she mouthed.
Past her child’s bed, onward she raced to her promise.
The crushing bustier hindered her breathing,
Her long stiff skirt shortened strides.
Slowly her legs stiffened and she fell just short
Of the window. Her hair a mess, disheveled,
Breast rose and fell with each bated breath. Perhaps
She could wait,
But the dancing star in the vast realm of peril
Titillated each hair with a tantalizing flicker.
Blurred lengths of carpeted hallways,
Walls of discerning figures among floral, racing past
Each familiar memory, she never noticed
How far from the door she truly was.
Like time had stopped her,
A force beyond her control kept pulling
Her further. Mrs. Fairchild found the knob icy hot to touch,
But probing delicate fingers could not stop
The clanking and quickening footsteps.
A wonderland, painted white with lonely snow
Even through spring, stood before her for the last time.
Neighbors only heard the click of heels amongst the strangers on the street.
And when the child, rested and full,
Woke she’d find that her mother left
Her an empty egg devoid of yolk.
Twas just the way of an awakening of many a mother,
Repeated each night in their dreams.